Episode-Related Mini Fics
by Timemidae
Summary: Ficlets in a range of genres, some funny (I hope), some serious.
1. Being a fragment of an audio communiqué

_Post-Script to "The King of Diamonds Affair"_

Being a fragment of an audio communiqué – Rio de Janeiro to New York, March 1966, decrypted 2018

*Clears throat*

Far be it from me, a mere subregional director, to question the workings of the great New York office, and you know I'm always happy to cooperate with your boys, Alexander. But I gotta say, I have good agents working down here. Fine *Sniff* fine agents- equally at home on the wide, wild stretches of the Amazon or in the narrow streets of the favelas, more than equal to retrieving your personnel, your pudding maker, and your diamonds. And so, I just have to ask, why did you feel the need to send us Typhoid fucking Mary?! *Achoo*


	2. Nobody Fools A Kasrilevker

_A micro-fix-it-fic for "The Hot Number Affair"_

Illya stood very still and fought reasonably hard against the impulse to incapacitate whomever it was who had just grabbed him by the coat sleeve. He'd been stopped as he made to slip out of the factory's show room, ready to put 'Agnes Sue' and all her ridiculous confederates far behind him. In all probability, he knew, his attacker was merely an innocent old dressmaker—an innocent old dressmaker for whose injuries he would be answerable should any harm come to the man now, after the elderly garment-worker had passed unscathed through THRUSH's attempt at arson.

Sure enough, the arm that was then thrown companionably around Illya's shoulders belonged to one Harry Sighn. The older man leaned in conspiratorially, 'Hey, boychik, a word of advice before you go: if you think that Chaim Silberman, from Kasrilevke,' here he gestured towards his own chest and threw Illya an exaggerated wink, 'believed for a second you were a Japanese, you'd better have your head examined!'

 _Notes:_

 _Look, I know there are many inexplicable things in this episode (Sonny! Cher! The kazoo music!), but one thing I can't understand is why they took two characters who are, at least to my mind, heavily coded as Eastern European Jews in their profession and their dialect, and then tried to convince them that Illya Kuryakin was a Japanese name._

 _Kasrilevke is not a real place. It a fictional town of notorious fools, invented by the Yiddish writer Sholem Aleichem. Insofar as it has a location, it is nebulously within the Pale of Settlement of the former Russian Empire._


	3. There's Nothing About Margo

_Takes place during 'The Deadly Quest Affair'_

Napoleon has switched sides. I can scarcely believe it, and yet he is indisputably allied with my captors. He even has the temerity to flirt with my despotic gaoler. Of course he does. And to think of how glad I'd been to see him! Of how I'd endured the hours of my confinement in hoping Napoleon would come, had been certain that he would finally rescue me, even if he was, as usual, unforgivably tardy. In my weaker moments I'd even just wished for Napoleon to be here with me, wished he could talk with me, distract me from the unpleasantnesses that are inevitable whenever one is in the tender care of enemies like ours. And now! Now I am effectively silenced, while he baits me, flaunts his freedom, gloats over my captivity. His betrayal turns my stomach.

Admittedly, that may be the concussion.

Still, it is undeniable that Napoleon has changed allegiance on me. When he arrived I didn't imagine that he could have stopped by merely to bring me flowers, feed me grapes, and patronize me. Actually, his condescension I probably should have expected. In any case, I can't be blamed for the confusion. If he'd only follow the script we'd be out the door by now, Napoleon having demanded my presence for some inane task, I having put-up more-or-less token resistance.

That was how it had worked out that time in Paris, although who would want to pull helicopter stunts with a pilot who had to squint through a blinding headache is, frankly, beyond me. And he'd pulled the same trick in Algiers, where I'd actually been having a fairly pleasant time until Napoleon summoned me to play pimp for some poor café proprietress.

Actually, the more I think about it, the less certain I am which side is supposed to be mine. But that's the problem, isn't it? For Napoleon, the statement, 'Illya is in hospital with concussion.' has no set meaning and prescribes no particular course of action, not without first considering the question, 'What do I, Napoleon Solo, need from Illya at this time?' At the moment it appears that what he needs is me, kept securely out of the way of whatever designs he has on Margo or Mary or whomever. Honestly, it's not as though I care about his evening's social agenda. It's not like he would stay with me otherwise; that stone-eyed gorgon of a nurse would never let him…would she?

A question that is quickly rendered academic, as he is gone, and I am alone, and I am not alone and… the hospital is gone.

And then Napoleon comes for me at, as is to be expected, the worst possible time.

And now we are back at the hospital. Someone's dressed my hand, but, after thorough examination, they've declined to return me to my ward. It turns out that a full day of imprisonment, sedation, and forced immobility has much the same salutary effect as twenty-four hours of bed rest. Who could have guessed?

Poor Napoleon, however, will be confined for at least the next several days. I vow to come see him in the evening—I can't not come when Napoleon needs me. And if that means he occasionally yanks me from my sickbed, so what? I know now that there are others who will do so with significantly less consideration.

But, in the end, Napoleon was there for me—even when it seemed it would kill him. I'll be there for him whenever and wherever he should need me. And if what he needs most now is a bit of his own medicine, well, who would I be to interfere with his convalescence?


	4. Anywhere Beneath the Sun

Like most successful, or at least relatively long-lived, secret agents, Illya Kuryakin was not in the habit of giving out his address. And so the letter, found crumpled at the back of a post-box that typically contained only life insurance adverts, supermarket coupons, and bills, was far from expected.

Holding it cautiously, he took it inside and set it on the kitchen table. It had evidently had a hard journey on its way; the envelope was stained and wrinkled, as though it had gotten wet at some point, and a smear of what looked like engine grease marred the back flap. The return address indicated a P.O. Box in LaPlace, Louisiana. To his knowledge, Illya was not acquainted with anyone in such a place. Even if he had been, all unanticipated deliveries were deeply suspect. Never let it be said that Illya Nikolayevich Kuryakin didn't learn from his mistakes. Letting the envelope lie, he threw open the window, then rummaged a moment in a drawer. Donning a pair of rubber gloves, he returned to the table and picked up the letter. Holding the envelope as far from his face as possible, he slowly eased it open.

* * *

Hey Big Man,

How's it hanging, shoreside? I know you said only to use this address if there was an emergency, but I just had to tell you. Me and Scotty and the boys got to talking the other day, about what you'd told us 'fore you left, about what to do if Capt. Morton gave us any more trouble…

* * *

Oh no. No no no. What had he told them?

The affair had been concluded with slaps-on-the-back and smiles all around. They'd docked in Hong Kong. It had seemed unfathomably rude to turn down a drink with the crew, with his comrades of the past several days. But the 'grog' in the filthy sailors' pub they'd taken him to had been stronger than he'd expected, and, the food on board being what it was, and the sea-air having never given him much of an appetite to begin with, he certainly hadn't had enough on his stomach to sustain a serious bout of drinking. And, he remembered, he'd been angry.

Napoleon had what Illya considered to be a particularly American optimism when it came to morality. To Napoleon, it was enough that a man do what was right at the final, crucial moment. He could have whatever foibles he pleased, as long as he made the right choice when it really, truly mattered.

But, didn't it matter, what a person fed and paid their workers, on all the ordinary days of their lives? Wasn't it a choice, each day, to let them toil on a rattletrap ship, far from help, with an engine that could blow at any moment? To intimidate the crew until they believed that nothing better was possible for them?

Illya loved Napoleon for his faith in humanity. His believe, however strained, that, given the opportunity, anyone could change for the better. He'd just never expected Waverly to share the same outlook. He grimaced, as long as the individual in question was English, upper crust, and, well, clubbable.

It was true, in the post-combat euphoria, that Illya had offered Morton the captaincy back. Naïvely, he'd expected it to be something of a farewell tour. He couldn't see any harm in letting the pompous ass steer them back to shore, before he traveled on to a peaceable retirement. However, they'd been met at the dock by Alexander, 'Oh, would you care to work for us?' Waverly.

So, he'd been angry, and more than a little drunk, and it seemed he'd given Hank and the crew some ideas. What had they done, blown up the ship? There was only one way to find out.

* * *

-about what to do if Capt. Morton gave us any more trouble, and about how the worker is the backbone of civilization, and about how the bosses are just uppity stuffed-shirts (although, beg your pardon, that wasn't exactly how you put it), about how and Morton needed us more than we needed him, and we was owed certain rights and dignities.

Anyhow, it took some doing, but I'm writing you now as the representative of Chapter 347 of the Seafarers International Union. We voted to organize last year, and now we're working out a new contract, with higher pay, and regular safety inspections, and no more tying folks to the mast just cause the Capt. don't like 'em. We even got the Capt. to buy Cookie a cookbook. Turns out he can't read any better than he can cook, but he's getting better every day.

Yours in brotherhood,

Hank

* * *

Title from 'Solidarity Forever,' lyrics by Ralph Chaplin:

When the union's inspiration through the workers' blood shall run,  
There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun


	5. It Don't Mean a Thing

My partner didn't even have the decency to hide his smirk as we made our way from Napoleon's tomb back to our hotel.

"Alright, laugh it up," I said, when I just couldn't take it any longer, "I suppose you're named for some irreproachable peasant ancestor, who never traveled more than 100 versta from his beloved potato farm and never cracked a smile in his life."

"Actually, no," Illya, at least, did smile. "I'm certain even you've heard of the person I'm named after. These days, he may be better known than poor, outmoded Bonaparte."

I felt my brow furrow, "Who?"

"Duke Ellington," he grinned. "Fortunately for me, my parents thought it would be impolitic to publically advertise their love of American jazz music."

And with that he walked on, leaving me to pick my jaw up off the sidewalk.

He whistled as he walked, and I caught a few bars, 'It Don't Mean a Thing.'

God, I wish I could tell when Illya Kuryakin was lying.


End file.
